This One Vice
by MorbidbyDefault
Summary: As he sits in Molly's flat, Sherlock reflects the incident that happened on Christmas as well as other incidents with his pathologist. Birthday gift/prompt for SammyKatz! Rated T for some romanticy-type stuff.


Just a lovely little challenge presented to me by the wonderful SammyKatz. It's also a birthday gift for her, because she's just that cool. I hope I do your idea justice, my dear. And I hope you enjoy it! Happiest of birthdays!

Oh, by the way. I don't own any of these characters. Dang it.

All Hearts are Broken:

OoOoOoOoOoOoOo

Sherlock was sat in the large cushioned arm chair of Molly Hooper's flat. His ''fall'' had happened just two days before, leaving the ruined detective secluded in this hole of a flat. Sherlock had gone to Molly for help. Mainly because he knew he could trust her, count on her. However, there was another part of him, somewhere buried deep, that had urged him to seek her assistance because it knew he needed her, only her. The pale man sat, or rather, slouched, in the young pathologist's chair, and filtered through the files of her room that occupied a corner in his mind palace.

OoOo

The first file he had seen had been one he wanted to forget. It had been tossed in the corner, collecting proverbial dust as he abandoned it. The case now seemed to almost glow with need for attention. It was a bright ruby red color, matching a certain shade of lipstick Molly had once worn. Sherlock had wanted to forever delete that memory, but for some reason, it came crawling back to him. He opened the file, and the memory spilled out of it.

OoOo

It was Christmas, and he was arguing with John about that bloody photograph of him wearing the annoying ear hat. There was a slight knock at the door, and his eyes shot up to see her. He deduced a thousand different things about her in that one glance, and found his blood began to boil.

'She's done her hair up, as well as her make up. Bright red lipstick, matching that of the gift in that bag she brought. Obviously a new gentleman caller, probably some idiotic Neanderthal with flippant hair.' He thought to himself.

There was small talk and petty greetings exchanged amongst the others in the room with her as she removed her coat. She looked absolutely stunning. It made Sherlock hate her all the more. How dare she? She was supposed to be his. She shows up in his flat, lovely and dressed to the nines. All for somebody else. So, with this mentality, Sherlock acted as most children would, breaking their own toy, so as not to have to share it with anyone else.

''I see you've got a new boyfriend, Molly, and you're serious about him. '' He snipped at her. He watched her face morph into confusion. He continued, already too far gone to stop.

''In fact, you're seeing him this very night, and giving him a gift.'' He rattled on, he had wanted to hurt her. Wanted to jab at her emotions until she came back to him. He should have taken the hint as John told him to take a day off. He continued, nevertheless.

''Oh, come on. Surely you've all seen the present at the top of the bag. Perfectly wrapped with a bow. All the others are slap dash at best. Must be someone special, then.'' He bitterly clipped out. Someone special, who wasn't him. It angered him to feel something so...human, as jealousy, but it was too deep now for him to quit.

''Shade of red echoes her lipstick, either an unconscious association or one she's deliberately trying to encourage. Either way, Miss Hooper has love on her mind.'' Love. Such a disgusting false emotion. He hated to think that she could pay attention to anyone but him, hated that she could 'love' anyone but him. The look on her face said embarrassment and hurt. 'Good, maybe she'll know what she's done to me, then.'

''The fact that she's serious is clear from the fact that she's giving him a gift at all. That always suggests long term hopes, however forlorn, and that she's seeing him tonight is evident from her make-up and what she's wearing.'' He opened the tag, prepared to mentally murder whomever had stolen his pathologist away from him. He got in one final jab.

''Obviously trying to compensate for the size of her mouth and breasts...'' He stalled upon seeing the tag. Beautifully scrolled in red ink. His name. HIS name. There's always something he missed. Always. It was all for him, and he'd just ruined it. Sherlock's mouth hung open as he cut himself off midstream. That's when she spoke. Her beautiful voice was raspy with hidden tears, as she looked to the floor incredulously.

''You always say such horrible things. Every time. Always, always.'' Her eyes were brimmed with shining tears. He had to fix it. He had to make it right, somehow. Sherlock didn't need John Watson to tell him it was 'not good'. He had shifted away, prepared to just crawl away in sudden shame for getting it wrong. 'No, I have to fix it.' He turned to her, and did what was possibly the most difficult thing for him to do.

''I am sorry. Forgive me.'' His voice was slightly airy, the guilt blocking his usually strong baritone. He leaned in, kissing her on the cheek.

''Merry Christmas, Molly Hooper.'' He said, and stood upright once more. 'There. That should help.' Then, then that bloody Woman had to interfere with a text. His phone chimed with the oozing tone of her sigh. He wanted, in that moment, to smash it against the floor of 221B. He explained the sound to a dumbfounded Lestrade, and had to look away from a very mortified, not to mention devastated, Molly. He excused himself to his room, ignoring the calls from John. He shut the door, deciding to focus on something else. The phone slipped from the box easily. He rang Mycroft, and briefly explained the situation. He could tell his brother was shocked by the news, no doubt a blow to the ability of his team. John had knocked on the door, asking after him. Sherlock shut the door in his face, wanting nothing more than to be left alone in that moment.

He had known The Woman wasn't dead. It was worked out ahead of time. Not a problem. The only problem he faced now, was that he had in essence, ruined what feelings Molly Hooper may have had for him. All for the sake of wanting to keep her for himself.

OoOo

It was the next morning, early on Christmas day. He had received the call from Mycroft, to meet him at St. Bart's morgue. They had found ''Irene''. He was to identify the body. Sherlock walked into the cold morgue, listening to Mycroft talk about bringing her to this place. However, the words fell on deaf ears as he saw her walk from across the room. Her hair was still wavy from the hours before when it was pulled up. It now cascaded over her petite shoulders, causing a beautiful frame around her face. The make up was gone, leaving only her fair skin to glow under the morgue lights. She looked lovely to him, and he suddenly felt even worse about what he had said to her.

''No need to come in, Molly.'' Sherlock said, hoping to break the ice with the pathologist once again. And then, there it was. She smiled, just briefly, as she answered him.

''That's okay. Everyone else was busy with...Christmas.'' he watched as her face fell. She thought she seemed pathetic, having no one to spend the holiday with. She was alone. Sherlock would be lying if he said he hadn't wanted to collect her in his arms. He watched her face express sympathy toward him as she explained that the face was hard to identify.

''Show me the rest of her.'' He stated automatically. It was rehearsed, at least in his head. But he hadn't taken the time to see what effect those words would have on the young woman across from him. She looked to the side, as if unsure how the sight of the woman's body would help. Why did she possess such a look?

'Oh.' Reality hit him like a ton of bricks. Molly thought he and this woman were intimate with each other. The logical side of his brain was loudly arguing with him. 'Stick to the plan. Get out of there.' It shouted at him. He confirmed, falsely, Irene's identity, before quickly exiting the room, leaving before he could turn and explain the whole story to Molly. He stood in the hall, watching a family receiving sad news. 'How terribly human, these emotions are.' He thought to himself. He was disgusted by the fact that such a meek young lady like Molly Hooper could cause his ironclad heart to experience such heavy, burdening feelings. Soon, Mycroft was at his side, standing just slightly behind him.

He offered him a cigarette, to which Sherlock gladly took. He needed a distraction. A hit from another of his vices, beside her. He inhaled deeply, sucking down the sweet, bitter taste of the nicotine. Sherlock listened as his brother made a satirical joke about the dangers of smoking in a morgue. They spoke a bit more about the details of The Woman's death. He looked again, to the family down the hall.

''Look at them all. They all care so much.'' He said in disdain, before speaking again.

''Do you ever wonder if there's something wrong with us?" Sherlock asked after a moment. Mycroft took in a silent breath.

''All lives end, all hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock.'' It was the way he said his name. Sherlock knew Mycroft was aware of the true subject of their conversation. It wasn't Irene Adler at all. He had to deflect.

''This is low tar.'' He squabbled offhandedly. It was a discrete way of telling his older brother he did not wish to discuss the issue any further. It seemed to work, as Mycroft played along.

''Well, you barely knew her.'' Sherlock was amused at his brother's complete malleable nature. He walked away, taking another drag of his cigarette. He needed something stronger, much stronger.

''Merry Christmas, Mycroft.''

''And a Happy New Year.''

OoOo

Sherlock closed the bright file in his hands, and listened as the violin's sweet melody consumed Molly's space. John, while very good at seeing things in him, never truly could observe their true nature. While he saw the traits, all the actions of a heartbroken man who was completely besotted, he misunderstood. The good doctor had thought his behavior was in regards to Adler. That clever woman who was nearly as clever as the detective himself. He couldn't have been further from the truth. The song, of course, had been for Molly.

''You composing?" John had asked.

''Helps me to think.'' Came his reply. He had been trying to focus on cracking the code of Irene's camera phone, but Molly kept interfering. Sweet, lovely Molly. It was sickening to him to be distracted from his work on such an enormous scale. He had, for a moment, thought he figured it out. Irene was sending him the code, she had to be. She was in over her head, and needed help. Of course, this had turned out to be wrong, leading Sherlock to get frustrated even more. He returned to his violin, ignoring John as he left, determined to remain on the track of detoxifying his mind from the beautiful plague that Molly was.

OoOo

It had taken the days leading up to the fall to make him realize that he didn't actually want her out of his system. And now, as he sits in her chair, watching her serene face, her pale skin under the moonlight, staring while she sleeps on the sofa, Sherlock knows he may never be rid of this one vice. The lovely high that rolls through him. His favorite drug: Molly Hooper.

OoOo

Molly had been exhausted. After the grueling day of the fall; rescuing Sherlock, mending his wounds, and practically dragging him home to her flat; she was tired. Then, the following day, she had been hounded by the hungry vultures of the press, wanting into the Sherlock Holmes story at any angle they could manage. Word had spread about her feelings toward the former detective, and the media was having a field day in trying to break through the doors of St. Bart's. Luckily for her, the police were phoned, and the press was ushered away. Finally, after being escorted home by an armed officer, she all but collapsed on her long sofa, barely saying a word to the stoic man sitting in her plush chair. She took in a deep breath, and was asleep upon exhaling.

Sherlock watched her intently. The slow, steady pattern of her breathing pushed her shoulder blades out ever so slightly, given her a near feline like quality that intrigued him. He found himself wanted to hold her, wanting to take on the burden of sleep so she would return to her normal, pleasant self. Sherlock was then brought back to the files in his mind palace. Specifically, the one from just a few days prior.

OoOo

''You're wrong you know. You do count. You've always counted and I've always trusted you. But you were right. I'm not okay.'' He spoke in the darkness of the lab. It had been a truly harrowing admission for him to make. Sherlock was never very good with people, always saying the wrong thing at the wrong time. Always deducing people to within an inch of their sanity. He had hoped that, in telling Molly this truth, she would no longer resent him. He truly did need her help, wanted only her help. He feared that he may be too late. Until she spoke. That slightly nervous voice came slicing through his lightning like thoughts.

''Tell me what's wrong.'' Molly said, with every amount of determination she could. He admired her for that. She may be a nervous thing around him, but when it came to the head of important issues, Molly was always there. Always ready to do whatever was necessary to help him. Sherlock hadn't realized until then just how much he valued her, how much she truly counted.

''Molly, I think I'm going to die.'' He needed her, needed her advice and her help.

''What do you need?" She asked, as if reading his thoughts. Sherlock continued.

''If I wasn't everything you think I am, everything I think I am, would you still want to help me?" He was asking her a very difficult question, or, what seemed like a difficult one. If he became what Moriarty wanted him to become, a fraud, would she still have blind faith in him? Would she still offer to be at his beckoning call? For some, this would be impossible to ask of. John had even shown him a tiny shard of doubt, just the tiniest bit, but it wormed inside him still. Yes, for some, this question would be too much to handle. Not for Molly, though. Not for his Molly.

''What do you need?" She asked again, her voice more nervous now, but still filled with conviction. Still filled with all the absolute faith she had in him.

''You.'' He admitted this, quite seriously, quite meaningfully. He needed her, in every sense of the word.

OoOo

Sherlock's eyes snapped to the rousing sounds of his pathologist from across the room. She had been asleep for nearly an hour, hardly enough rest for someone. Yet there she was, smiling across the room to him.

''Hi Sherlock.'' She said tiredly. He sent her a quick grin, nodding a silent greeting in return. Molly sat up, stretching her arms above her head. Sherlock watched on, taking note of the way her muscles flexed at certain points, watching the way she bit her lower lip as the bones in her small body shifted and snapped back into their proper settings. Her hair was down, cascading around her shoulders. It echoed in his mind, the image he had of her from that Christmas in the morgue. She looked lovely then. She looked lovelier now.

''Would you like some tea? Or- or maybe some coffee?" She asked, causing Sherlock's eyes to whip up to her. She now stood behind the long sofa, pointing toward the kitchen. He nodded.

''Coffee, please. Bla-''

''Black, two sugars. Yes, I know.'' She said with a smile, having cut him off midstream. She walked into the kitchen, leaving Sherlock to his thoughts about her once again.

OoOo

''What do you mean 'gay'? We're together.'' She had asked in a hurt tone. Sherlock had seen the signs right away, and it annoyed him that she would turn a blind eye to such details. He knew she was capable of seeing them. This 'Jim' was definitely not interested in her for romantic reasons. That should have been his first clue. Yet, he missed it. Too busy tearing down her world, ripping to shreds the little happiness she had. All because he was jealous of some man who was stealing her affections.

OoOo

''Here you go.'' Her voice called. As he looked up, he was almost startled to see her so close. She smiled at him lightly, and he saw the steaming cup of coffee in her extended hand. He took it from her, and she returned to her seat. He sipped down some of the liquid, tasting the perfectly blended drink. How she managed to make a perfect cup every time, he'd never figured out. Sherlock looked up after a moment, to see that the meek woman was staring out the window. She seemed far away in thought, having not touched her mug since she set it down. He could see the way Molly's face was set in a stern way, almost as if she was glaring at some unknown being.

''Molly?" Sherlock's voice asked curiously. This made her jump out of her thoughts, her head snapping around to look at him.

''So-sorry. Just thinking. Do you need anything?'' She asked, as a sweet smile plastered onto her face. Sherlock was curious. Far too curious not to inquire.

''What were you thinking about?" He asked, now shifting in the chair so that he sat forward. Molly's face flushed a slight red, and she looked away. Her smile fell, and a sorrowful look took its place.

''Just...just that, this whole thing is sort of my fault, isn't it?" She spoke quietly. Sherlock's brow furrowed in shocked confusion. How on earth could this whole ordeal be her fault? He simply didn't understand.

''Why on earth would you think this has anything to do with you? Or for that matter, why you are at all to blame?" Sherlock asked, his voice betrayed the concern he so desperately tried to hide. Molly sighed, before pulling her knees in and tucking them under her chin. She was positively tiny, he noticed, and she looked up at him nervously.

''If I didn't- if I wouldn't have gone out with him, he wouldn't have been able to get close to you. He'd still be trying to get at you from afar. I'm- I'm so sorry Sherlock.'' With the last words, Molly burst into a light sob. She shamefully buried her face in her knees, hugging her legs tightly with her small arms. Sherlock sighed in simple frustration. Of course she would take the blame for something that she had no involvement in. He found himself striding over to crouch beside her. Molly started a bit as he tucked a hand beneath her hair, lifting her face up to meet his gaze.

''Molly Hooper, do not think, for one solitary moment, that you had any part in bringing Moriarty across my path. This was in the works long before you met him. You are not to blame.'' Molly had stopped her sobbing, and was now listening to his low, dark voice. Sherlock noticed her red eyes dilating, the way her breath had hitched slightly with his touch. What he hadn't noticed, or hadn't acknowledged, was the fact that his body echoed her actions, and he was now much closer to her than moments before. His eyes raked over her features, and he felt his stomach plummet into his feet at the sight of her teeth gently gnawing on her lower lip.

''Molly...'' He started. At the sound of her name, Molly moved into action, wrapping her arms around his neck. Her knees separated and she dropped her legs to either side of his body. Her head came to a rest in the crook of his neck, and she hugged him tightly. Sherlock was stiff, unsure of how to proceed. Molly sniffled against his skin, and breathed out a slow sigh, the air blowing across his skin. He shivered lightly, almost undetectable, at the feeling. It did, however, relax him significantly. He breathed out just as slowly, and carefully wrapped his long arms around her petite waist. As he inhaled, Sherlock was almost overwhelmed with the sweet smell of vanilla.

''Oh, Sherlock. I just wish there was something more I could do.'' She sighed into his neck. Sherlock pulled away to look at her. Her eyes were still red with a watery shimmer over them. His head was pounding, her closeness seeping into him. He had to tell her, he just had to.

''Molly. Molly, Molly, Molly. You have no clue what you've done.'' He tilted her face up. She looked at him with a confused look, and he hesitantly leaned close to her, whispering as their lips were mere inches apart.

''You have done far more than you will ever know, Molly. Far more good than I can tell you.'' He said this, before closing the small gap. Their lips met in a small, gentle kiss, before he pulled away. Molly's eyes had gone wide, and he looked at her with a boyish and nervous expression.

''Molly Hooper, you are so-'' he was about to tell her how much she was valued, how much he actually cared, when she pressed her lips into his again. Sherlock sucked in a gulp of air, slightly shocked by her emboldened move. She molded her lips to fit with his, and she sat forward to be closer. Sherlock found the move intoxicating, and he wrapped his arms around her in a tight grip. Molly's slender fingers threaded through his hair and pulled his face flush with hers. Soon, he felt himself grow very warm, as if someone had cranked the heat to its highest setting. He wanted, needed, to touch more of her. Without warning, Sherlock pulled her from the sofa into his arms. He stood in a brisk motion, and held her close to himself. Molly was mewing softly as he gently nibbled on her lower lip. They separated long enough to restore the oxygen supply to their lungs, before starting in again. Sherlock grinned against her mouth as he felt her small hands grab his shirt. They began to move, awkwardly and slowly, toward the hall. Sherlock knew what she was after, and decided to take action.

He quickly scooped his arms under her thighs, hoisting her up into his strong hold. He kissed along her jaw as he started walking, and carted her off toward her bedroom. Molly sighed contentedly as their kisses continued, rapidly increasing in pace. As they reached the bedroom, Molly's hand pushed the door shut, her other still raking wildly through his curls.

OoOo

So, hours later; after their breathing had returned to normal, after she covered them up with the warm blankets, and after she had fallen asleep against his chest; Sherlock sat in Molly's bed. He listened to her breathing, watched her face set in its calm look. Sherlock made a new file for his mind palace. Its shade was a pale, rose color that echoed her flushed skin just the few hours ago. In it, he placed the memories, the sounds of her sighs and pleasant moans, the arch of her back, everything. As he closed the file, he set it on the imagined shelf that occupied her space. He then picked up the bright red file, placing it next to the new one. Sherlock decided that, instead of dwelling longer in this space, he would enjoy his new found addiction firsthand. Afterall, he had a boundless supply of his new favorite vice right at his fingertips. And Sherlock Holmes knew he was never going to let her go.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOo

Well, I hope this is what you were hoping for. Thank you for presenting the prompt challenge, I wanted to make it as best as possible, so ta-da! Also, I hope you have a wonderful birthday, SammyKatz!


End file.
